Wind River Wrangler (Wind River Valley #1)(3)

Shiloh never forgot Maud Whitcomb’s grit, her responsibility toward her, or the ongoing attention and care for her over the years afterward. Maud never forgot her birthday. She’d send her JPEGs from time to time of the ranch, horses, buffalo, or cattle, saying she should come out West. It would do her good. In the last six months, that’s all Shiloh had thought about: leaving New York and visiting Maud. Running away.

Chewing on her lower lip, brows dipping, Shiloh stared down at the beautiful nineteenth-century tapestry on the floor. It was from Persia, pale cream colors in the background with brilliant patches of woven flowers all across it. She loved that rug. It always lifted her spirit. Always made her yearn for the beauty of real wildflowers. What would it be like to walk through a field of them? That wouldn’t happen here in New York City, she knew. But the rug fulfilled a yearning in her for nature.

The last six months, she’d been jogging less and less on her route through Central Park. Now, June first, she knew the grass would be a vibrant green, all the trees in full leafy green wardrobe. She ached to get out of the apartment, stretch her legs, feel the wind in her face, feel the throbbing life of the outdoors surrounding her. Shiloh wrote every day, but she made a point to jog every day, too. It was balancing mental activity with physical activity. It suited her. It had worked for years. Until her stalker silently, like a deadly, toxic fog, entered her life, unknown and unseen.

Now, Shiloh felt the adrenaline leaving her body. She was exhausted. She had to do something to break this cycle.

Slowly getting to her feet, she shuffled stiffly to her desk where she wrote. The window was curtained, a transparent white chiffon that made the other skyscrapers of New York look like archetypal symbols in a fog. Every book she’d written had been written at this desk.

Looking at the phone, she wondered if she could write anywhere else but here. Shiloh had never traveled outside the city. She lived in a fishbowl, but she was happy in it, with no need to go elsewhere. Everything she needed or wanted was right here. What should she tell Maud? The truth? That she was a coward? Running away from a fight? Couldn’t take it anymore? That’s how Shiloh felt: tired, beaten, and maneuvered into a corner where there was no escape. Just as Anton had shoved her mother into the corner of the kitchen, trapping her so he could stab her to death. She had no way to escape, either.

But Shiloh did.

Suddenly, she didn’t care what Maud or her editor thought of her. She’d tried to dismiss the stalker. Tried to work with the police. But still, the stranger tormented her. Maybe if she was gone for two months, her nemesis would leave. No more faxes. No more heavy breathing over the phone. No more doorknobs twisting one way and then the other, the stalker wanting in to get to her.

With new determination, Shiloh picked up the phone, praying that Maud would allow her to travel to Wyoming for a visit to see her. It was the only hope she had left.

*

“Roan?” Maud Whitcomb called from the steps of the Wind River Ranch office porch. She waved toward a cowboy mounted on a blood bay quarter horse. He rode like he was born to the saddle, his gray Stetson low over his eyes, shading them from the welcome overhead sunlight. She saw him turn his gelding her way instead of heading down to where he and other wranglers were going to push about twenty head of cattle from one pasture to another.

She held on to her bright red baseball cap as the breeze picked up. When Roan drew near, she called, “I need to talk with you for a moment.” She saw the man’s hard, lined, and weathered face remain unchanged. It was his gray eyes that narrowed slightly. Maud pulled the screen door open and walked back to her office. Her husband, Steve Whitcomb, was behind the counter. This was where all the tourists coming in for a weeklong vacation would check in.

“I want to talk with Roan in back for a moment,” she told Steve. Usually, Maud manned the desk midweek, fussing over paperwork, and her sixty-year-old husband was off with the wranglers doing ranch work to keep the place up and running.

“Got it,” he told her, giving her a wink.

Roan opened the door, brushed his dusty boots off before entering. Taking off his Stetson, he nodded toward Steve, who nodded back.

“Come to the other office,” Maud called, waving Roan to follow her.

Frowning, Roan wondered what was up. He was part of the wranglers behind the scenes who kept the largest ranch in the valley operational. He wanted nothing to do with the dude ranch families who came here on vacation.

He hit his hat against his thigh and dust flew off it. In long, casual strides, he headed down the highly waxed oak floor to the other office Maud had disappeared into. His curiosity was piqued because for the two years he’d worked at the ranch, Maud had never asked him to come into the office to speak privately with her. Other than giving him raises that he’d earned through a lot of hard, consistent work, she rarely called him aside.

Entering the office, he saw Maud sitting behind her messy desk. She’d taken off her baseball cap, her silver and black hair short and just below her ears. She was frowning, her expression worried.

“Shut the door, Roan. Thanks.”

His straight, dark brown brows rose a little over the request. “What is this, Maud? A stealthy new procedure now in practice around the ranch?” Roan asked, giving her a teasing grin as he came over and settled in the chair. It was a normal chair but he wasn’t normal size. He was six foot two and two hundred pounds of brute muscle. Good thing it didn’t have arms on it or he’d never have fit into it. The metal chair squeaked as he sat down, hat resting on his long, hard thigh.